My therapist suggested I start to draw my dreams and nightmares, as a way to take a little bit of the fear from the inside and put it in the outside world. That way it looked a little less frightening and a little more manageable. She also suggested I paint things for myself; “fun paintings” as a way to spend 20 minutes each day on something just for myself, something to make me happy. Having been told by a terrible tutor at college that I was only capable of replicating exactly what I saw, that I was incapable of interpreting the world in a unique way, and that I would never be An Artist®, I was dubious. I was wrong to doubt myself.  

 I found the process incredibly therapeutic; all my attention was dedicated to making one square inch at a time, of this 5x7 canvas, as perfect as possible while the rest of the world fell away. Nothing else seemed to matter. Suddenly my 20 minutes a day turned into an hour, then two. After a few weeks I was painting for five or six hours after logging off from work.   

 The trouble with working from home is having to double or triple up on use of space. My ‘home office’ was the dining room, my cat’s bathroom and, increasingly importantly to me, the beginnings of a studio. Trying to concentrate on intricate legal research whilst the brushes and paints danced in my periphery didn’t quite make me the most dedicated employee.   

 After a few weeks of playing around with different styles, techniques and mediums I discovered the ease and joy of acrylic paints – a material I’d never used before having been strictly a graphite and watercolour fanatic in my younger years.  As I experimented with the way I painted, I began to think harder about what I was painting and who was doing the painting.   

 Non-binary is a term that had very recently found its way into my life. When I read up on gender queerness and non-binary identities, seismic shifts began inside my mind. That underlying heat of discomfort in my body, about my body, and in the language I and others had used to describe my body had a name. The sense of being entirely alien from the girls and young women I experienced as I was growing up had a name. Who and what I was had a name. The sense of belonging as I began to read other people’s stories of gender dysphoria and gender identity discovery was like nothing I’d felt before. So, of course, I began to explore these feelings and ideas in my marathon painting sessions. For a brief while it was glorious.   

 And then my partner got sick.   

 Over Christmas he had been unwell with what we thought was Long Covid. By late February he was almost completely bed bound. After much persuading, cajoling and guilt-tripping he eventually booked an appointment to see his GP. Immediately he was taken to hospital and at 2am he phoned me to say he’d been diagnosed with acute leukaemia and would be transferred to The Christie to start chemotherapy the next morning. Five weeks later I was able to be at his bedside, holding his hand when he died quite suddenly and unexpectedly.    

 As I write this, it has been a little over a week since I stood at the lectern and gave a reading from The Amber Spyglass at his funeral, and a little over 4 days before I go to collect his ashes. Only in these last few dozen hours have I really began to understand the magnitude in which these last few months will change my life and outlook. Four weeks ago my best friend died, and I’m only just beginning to unpick my tightly wound knot of emotions. The best way I know how is to take a little bit of it at a time from the inside and put it in the outside world. This way it begins to look a little less frightening and a little more manageable.  

Ash is a 30-something business intelligence researcher for a law firm, and is based in Manchester. They spend almost all of their free time painting, being manipulated by their cat, watching sci-fi and finding reasons not to leave the house. You can find their work on instagram